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The worst part of sleeping on an airbed is the noise, Ian thinks as he drags himself off of his, it’s impossible to properly fall asleep when just the slightest movement causes an obnoxious creak, and getting out of one sounds deafening in the middle of the night. Ian winces and squints over at where George is lying on the actual bed, but he doesn’t see any movements in the dark. Cunt. George won the bed by pure luck, but that doesn’t mean Ian can’t harbour a small grudge against him for getting a full night’s sleep while Ian lies awake basically on the floor.
When he stumbles to the bathroom he's unaware of anything except his own misery, so it's not until he's about to head back to another night of staring at the ceiling that he notices that the kitchen lights are still on. He remembers that Max was the last person to go to bed, and Ian can easily picture him stumbling to his bedroom and completely forgetting to turn the lights off. He ducks his head in the doorway to switch them off, but now that he’s closer it sounds like the TV has been left on too, and as he hovers his hand over the lightswitch he catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Ian doesn’t have his glasses on, but he’s pretty sure he saw someone move over by the TV, and when he rounds the corner to have a full view of the couch his suspicions are confirmed. Just as he suspected, Max is sitting on the couch with his eyes glazed over watching the TV, and he has a Cruiser in his hand and more bottles lying next to him, too many of them empty.
Max hasn’t even noticed that Ian is now standing less than a foot away from him, so he makes his presence known by asking, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Max turns and freezes almost comically, caught red-handed with a bottle raised halfway to his mouth. He recovers quickly though, taking a swig and going into defence mode. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you're getting wasted by yourself when you should be asleep,” Ian says, and he prides himself in how calm he sounds considering Max is shooting daggers at him, presumably just because he’s pissed he got caught.
Max widens his eyes in faux apology, “I’m supposed to be asleep? My bad, I’m so sorry for staying up past my bedtime. Cunt.” The last part is spat out, and, in Ian’s opinion, completely unnecessary.
Ian has gone from being confused, to being concerned, to being annoyed. He’s used to Max’s bitchiness by now, but that doesn't mean he wants to deal with it at this time of night. “Max, it’s, like, three a.m.”
“I couldn't fucking sleep, okay. I spent hours staring at the fucking ceiling ‘cause I couldn't get my eyes to stay fucking shut, my brain won’t switch off, and that fucking bird next door won’t shut the fuck up!” With every word Max’s voice gets louder and louder until it’s at a volume that Ian would find unacceptable during the day, let alone in the early hours of the morning.
He lets his tone be a little harsher than before when he says, “Dude, shut up, you’re gonna wake up George. Just because you’re awake doesn't mean we all have to be.”
“Sorry,” Max mumbles into his bottle, and for a moment Ian’s irritation fades because Max looks genuinely apologetic and a tiny bit miserable, but then naturally ruins it by burping loudly and laughing.
Ian already knows what the answer will be, but he still asks, “So, what, you’re just gonna sit here and drink until you pass out?”
“Pretty much,” Max shrugs.
Ian looks at Max slumped on the couch, and as he watches him tip a bottle upside down to get the dregs of alcohol out and nearly drop it on his face in the process, Ian sighs in resignation and drops down next to him.
“Alright, move the fuck over,” Ian says as he pulls out a pillow from the nest Max has made for himself.
“You’re gonna stay up with me?” Max looks at him with a combination of confusion and surprise, and Ian hates that it's kind of endearing.
He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he says, “It’s not exactly like I have a warm, comfy bed I wanna get back to.”
Max, of course, knows exactly what Ian is talking about. “Yeah, well, that’s your fault for sucking at paper scissors rock.”
Ian instantly responds to this blatantly false statement, “You can’t suck at rock paper scissors, it’s pure luck, George just happened to win.”
Max has clearly forgotten that Ian is here out of the kindness of his heart, as he outright laughs in Ian’s face and jeers, “Ha, pussy, you just can’t admit you’re shit at something.”
When Ian moves to stand up and replies, “Alright, fine, choke to death on vomit in your sleep, cunt, see if I care,” he’s mostly joking, but Max still reaches out and grabs his arm to pull him back.
“No, Ian, come on, don’t leave me. It’s actually really fucking depressing sitting by myself. I’ve watched more Family Guy funny moments compilations than any human being ever should.” Max looks at Ian with puppy dog eyes and Ian’s annoyance fades almost completely, annoyingly. He always gives in way too easily to Max.
Ian looks at the TV screen and sees that Max really isn’t lying. “Wow, part seventeen.”
“Yeah, it’s way better than part sixteen, but I don’t think it’ll manage to top part twelve,” Max attempts to say deadpan, but breaks the second Ian laughs.
As Ian rummages through the pillows for the remote Max holds out one of the bottles lying next to him, but Ian bats it away. “I don’t want a fucking Cruiser, that’s more sugar than alcohol. You’re not gonna be able to drink yourself to unconsciousness with that shit.”
Max pops the cap of the bottle off with his teeth and spits it in Ian’s direction, but there’s no real anger in his voice when he says, “Find something your-fucking-self, then, cunt.”
Luckily Max is riding that fine line between Australian and an alcoholic, so Ian just has to reach for the nearest surface to find some rum and a half finished bottle of Coke. He leans forward to get a glass, but in the time between putting the bottles on the couch and taking his eyes off of Max, Max has grabbed both bottles and swallowed a mouthful of each.
“I was going to get cups. You know, like a normal person,” Ian says, watching Max in slight disbelief.
Max is well past feeling shame, so he just laughs and says, “I’m saving washing-up time. Still gotta clean out the fucking fish and cigarettes from the sink.”
Ian noticed. Fortunately he wasn’t there for the bird flu incident, but he now sees how it got that bad, it seems they all prioritise making content over their physical health.
He points this out, “Do you think that, perhaps, living this way will have a negative impact on our general well-being?”
Ian’s tone is condescending, but Max is too drunk to notice, he just scrunches his face up in confusion and asks, “Are you not having fun?”
He doesn't need to debate that even for a second. “I never said that.”
Max smiles and Ian automatically mirrors it, and it doesn't drop even when Max pushes the rum towards him and demands, “Then shut the fuck up and start drinking, faggot, I don’t wanna be drunk by myself anymore.”
He can’t argue with that. Well, he could, and usually he would, but for sake of getting Max to sleep as quickly as possible he shuts the fuck up and starts drinking.
―
Ian is - for lack of a better term - fucking blasted. He’s always said that despite the fact that Max was born with Strongbow running through his veins Ian could outdrink him any day, and most of the time he’s proven right, but tonight (or today, fuck, it’s four in the morning) he’s just as drunk as Max is.
The Family Guy videos were turned off at Ian’s insistence, so the last hour has been spent passing the bottles back and forth and talking about… Ian can’t really remember what, but it probably (hopefully) wasn’t anything important. About half an hour in Max reached the point of drunkenness where he swaps jumping a mile in the air when anyone moves their hand towards him for completely disregarding the concept of personal space, and is now more or less draped over Ian.
Ian himself has reached the point where his hands and mouth move faster than his brain does, so when Max moves his head and his hair falls in front of Ian’s face, Ian finds himself tugging on it and saying, “Your hair’s gotten so fucking long.”
Sober Max would have shoved Ian away and called him a faggot, but it seems that right now Max has no problem with the physical contact, he just half-heartedly bats Ian’s hand away and says, “Yeah, I really need to get it cut.”
Ian feels an urge that he can’t explain to tug on Max’s hair again, to run his fingers through it, and the thought makes him grip the bottle of Bacardi tighter than he probably should. Instead of doing any of that gay shit, he falls back on the reliable pastime of trying to rile Max up. “You can’t do that, then what’ll we do when we need a girl for a video?”
To Ian’s slight disappointment, Max doesn’t take the bait, he just grabs the bottle from him and says, “I guess someone else will have to be the group’s bitch for once,” without looking at Ian.
Ian doesn’t think that will happen. Not the group bitch thing, that’s weird wording from Max that Ian isn’t going to go anywhere near, but Ian doesn’t think Max would ever refuse to be the girl in a video. It’s not that he’s been jumping at the chance when it’s suggested, but there hasn't really been any hesitation from him. Maybe when he did that makeup tutorial he got brain damage from all the paint fumes.
“Nah, none of us can pull off a dress like you can,” Ian jokes.
And it’s a joke, he is joking, but now that he’s thinking about it, it’s not technically untrue. When Max first put on the dress for The Gentleman’s Guide with the eyeliner and lipstick and everything, in the back of Ian’s mind he knew that Max… suited it. George made some joke about how the internet is gonna love it, and Ian couldn't help but agree.
“Fuck up,” Max laughs, and he really must be drunk to fucking laugh at that instead of physically assaulting Ian.
“You think I’m wrong? You haven't read your own comment section?” Ian shouldn’t be continuing this bit, if you can even call it a bit, but Max is starting to turn red, and more than anything Ian loves to get a rise out of Max.
“Maybe I should do it full time,” Max says in between taking a swig from both bottles, “Change genres again, I’d get to make another clickbait video.”
Ian is finding himself inexplicably drawn to looking at Max’s mouth as he talks, so he says “You’re such Youtuber scum,” because he’s changed his mind, he needs to change the subject now, he’s feeling weird and it’s making him feel even weirder that he can’t place why.
Max giggles, “Whatever gets the views, you know that, cunt. Gotta sell your soul for this shit, I’ll whore myself out a couple of times if it gets clicks.”
Yeah, this is weird. Max talking like this is weird. Whatever, he’s drunk, and he won’t remember any of it in the morning, and Ian probably won’t either, which is for the best, because Ian’s mind is starting to wander to places he’s not liking. He’s ingested a lot of alcohol, and there’s a warm body pressed against his side, and if Ian’s being honest he hasn’t gotten laid in a while, which can be the only explanation for why watching Max lick spilled Coke off his hand is making Ian feel a little dizzy.
He realises he hasn't replied in too long when Max says, “You completely fucked, mate? You’re staring into space like a retard.”
He’s not staring into space. He’s staring at Max. He doesn't say this. “Fuck off, I’m fine. Just wondering how long until you finally pass the fuck out.”
Max pouts, “You tryna leave? Thought you cared about me, Ian.” The puppy dog eyes are back, and Ian wonders if Max knows what they do to him.
Now, here’s the thing, Ian isn’t gay. He really isn't lying to himself when he says that, he’s never once felt any kind of attraction towards men, never had any reason to believe he isn't completely heterosexual. Except here he is, with Max basically in his lap looking up at him with his lips slightly parted, and the only word on Ian’s mind is ‘pretty’ .
“I care,” Ian says without thinking, and his voice cracks embarrassingly.
He grabs for the bottles from Max’s hands, desperate for a distraction, but Max doesn't let him take them, he bites his lip and says, “That’s kinda gay.”
“Says the guy constantly fucking begging for a chance to dress up as a pretty girl,” Ian shoots back, and his stomach drops instantly, he shouldn’t have said any of that, and he especially should have just said girl, that was the world’s biggest fucking Freudian Slip.
But before Ian can even fully finish processing how severely he might have fucked everything up, Max says, “Aw, you think I’m a pretty girl?”
Fuck. Fuck. He doesn't really have any more articulated thoughts than that. Except, as panic starts to set in, he notices that Max is now very red, Ian doesn't think he’s ever seen Max blush like this, and he’s no longer able to look Ian in the eye. This could mean nothing, Max is probably just feeling awkward about this surreal fucking conversation, but there’s something about the way he’s gripping the pillow next to him that makes Ian want to test something.
The test? How exactly will Max react when Ian says, sleazily enough that he can claim it was a joke, “I think you’re a very pretty girl, Maxine.”
Max’s reaction is what Ian suspected, what he was putting this gamble on, he snaps his head up to look at Ian but can’t seem to get anything out, just swallows around nothing, and Ian watches Max swallow, and Max watches Ian watch. In this moment, as he watches Max chew on his bottom lip and visibly debate with himself over what he should say, Ian realises that the worst has now happened, as if this couldn't be anymore fucked.
He is suddenly very aware that he is quickly getting hard, and he knows that if Max hasn't noticed already then he will soon. What’s worrying Ian even more is that he thinks Max is hard too, he can’t let himself look, but he’s pretty fucking sure that he can feel Max’s dick pressed against his leg. That should objectively be gross, because, ew, but right now it doesn't feel gross at all. In fact, for reasons Ian really doesn't want to look too closely at, it’s turning him on even more.
In an effort to not look down at Max’s cock, because that’s making things way too real, he focuses all his attention on Max’s mouth. This is a mistake. Ian has never particularly paid a lot of attention to his friend’s mouth up until this point, but he can’t help but notice that it’s, well, it’s nice. More than nice. If Ian wanted to be crass, he would say that Max has got some serious DSLs going on. In fact, it’s possible that if he kissed Max, it would just feel like kissing a girl. And maybe it would also feel like a girl if Max… Fuck, no, that’s too far. He doesn't want that, his cock definitely didn't twitch at that thought, because that really would be gay.
Ian doesn't know how long they've sat in this tense silence, locked in place out of fear of what they're both thinking, to Ian it feels like hours, but eventually it’s Max that breaks the silence. His voice is barely loud enough to hear, it’s almost a whisper, but it feels like a punch in the gut when Max says, “Do it.”
Ian’s eyes widen in alarm, did Max know exactly what Ian was thinking the whole time? Like, all of it? He knows that staring at his lips for that long was pretty much a dead give away, but does Max mean he wants Ian to kiss him, or he wants him to… God, he can’t even let himself think that. Surely that’s not what Max means, he just wants Ian to kiss him.
Oh. Wow. He wants Ian to kiss him. Max, who will call you a faggot if you simply look at him the wrong way, who sometimes it seems like his worst nightmare is people thinking that he’s gay, wants Ian to kiss him. And you know what? Ian wants that too. He’s a believer in doing what he wants when he wants it, and right now what he wants is to grab Max by the hair and kiss him until they run out of breath.
What else was there to do? Ian closes the gap between them and Max kisses back without hesitation, he tastes like a mixture of Bacardi and the fucking raspberry Cruisers, and it’s disgusting, this whole thing is so wrong, but Ian is more turned on than he’s been in a long time.
Ian was right, Max’s mouth does feel like a girl’s, and his long hair that Ian’s tangled his fingers in makes him feel even more like a girl, and the little whimper that Max lets out when Ian bites down on his bottom lip sounds like a girl too. Maybe that’s what Ian can do, maybe he can just pretend that this is some random girl he picked up in a bar, and not his very much male best friend. This could work, if it wasn't for the fact that Ian can definitely feel Max’s hard cock now.
At this realisation Ian pulls away and says, “This is so fucked."
And it really, really is. Ian thinks that maybe if he says this out loud, if he points out how much this should not be happening, Max will freak out and stop it, because at this point Ian doesn't think he can stop it himself.
But Max doesn’t freak out, he doesn’t jump up and run back to his room like he should, he moves in as close as he can and looks up at Ian through his lashes, and asks, “Are you not having fun?”
That’s the problem right there. Max’s hair is a mess and his lips are even more red and shiny than usual, and he looks at Ian with his pupils blown from what is undeniably lust, and Ian is having the time of his life. The only response he could possibly give is, “I never said that.”
Max grins, and Ian pulls Max properly onto his lap, because fuck it, he always commits to the bit, even if the bit is some variation of gay sex. Max happily lets himself be manhandled, and as he moves Ian catches a brief glimpse of his cock tenting his boxers before Max is pressing against him and- oh, fuck . He didn't think that sensation would ever feel good, and a part of him is screaming at him and wants to push Max off, but there’s another part of him that wants to put his hands on Max’s waist and shove his tongue in his mouth, and that part is a lot louder.
Luckily that seems to be exactly what Max wants too, as he starts rocking his hips, Ian slowly joining in until they're grinding against each other. Ian would be perfectly happy sticking with that, but Max is grabbing at Ian’s wrist and pulling his one hand off his waist, except he now seems unsure what to do with it, he hovers their hands in the small space between them, moving them towards himself then jerking them back. Speaking of, Ian’s pretty sure he knows what Max is trying to work up the courage to do.
He never planned to touch another man’s dick, but he also never planned to do any of this shit, so if he’s already gone this far he might as well fully commit. It’s basically just jerking off if Max returns the favour, right?
He moves slow enough to give Max the time to change his mind, but Max doesn’t stop him, and when Ian lays a hand on his cock and says, “Is this what you want? Hm?” Max fucking whimpers.
Actually touching it, it’s weird, just like everything else has been, but Ian concentrates on trying to replicate what he knows he likes, and soon Max is squirming in Ian’s lap and moaning into Ian’s mouth. Just as Ian is starting to feel like it’s getting a little too one-sided, he feels a hand slip under his pajama pants and wrap around his cock.
Max’s hand on his cock is dry and on just the wrong side of painful, until Max pulls his hand away so he can lick his palm, not stopping until it’s shiny with spit. As Ian watches Max work his tongue, he can’t help but think about… Fuck it, yeah, he’s thinking about how that tongue would feel on his cock, he’s thinking about fucking into Max’s mouth, his perfect, made for cock-sucking mouth.
The mental image causes Ian’s hips to buck up into Max’s hand and he can’t bite back a moan, which Max snorts at and says, “Faggot,” against Ian’s neck.
“I think that’s been established by now,” Ian manages to say between pants, and when Max opens his mouth to respond only a whine comes out as Ian swipes his thumb across the head of Max’s cock.
He knows neither of them are going to last very long, Ian can already feel himself getting close, which should be a good thing, he should want this to be over as quickly as possible, but all he can think is why the fuck haven't they been doing this from the second they first met? It’s not like it’s the best handjob he’s ever gotten, and he knows the one he’s giving Max can’t be as good as Max is making it sound, but no sex he's ever had has felt like this before.
That could have terrible, horrible implications that he never wants to ever think about again, so he chooses to stop thinking and just focus on the way that Max is clinging to his shirt and whining whenever Ian’s lips brush against his neck when he moans. Ian can’t help but revel in finding new ways to torment Max, he needs to explore them while he can if this is his only chance to do so. He kisses down Max’s neck, grazing his teeth across his skin to hear Max’s breath hitch while being conscious not to leave any marks, but the thought of Max’s throat covered in bruises that Ian left is more appealing than Ian ever thought it would be.
Ian knows it’s all about to be over very soon, he can feel it in the way the thrusts of their hips are speeding up to the point of shaking the couch and their grip on each other has gone from frantic to desperate. Ian knows that Max will be loud, so as he feels Max’s body tense up he pulls Max into a fierce, biting kiss, muffling Max’s moan as he cums in his boxers and all over Ian’s hand. All it takes to push Ian over the edge is the sight of Max’s bruised and slick mouth hanging open, his head falling back and eyes half-lidded, Ian watches Max come apart so completely and shoves a fist in his mouth as he spills into Max’s loosening grip.
There’s no post-coitus glow, no moment of pure contentment. All there is an awful silence, and the awkwardness of removing their hands from each other's underwear, and a general gross stickiness that feels worse than all the other bodily fluids they’ve been covered in. Ian can already feel everything start to come crashing down. They’ve ruined their friendship, their lives, possibly their careers. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Max looks at his cum streaked hand and wrinkles his nose in disgust, but when Ian goes to move to get something for them to clean themselves with Max grabs his wrist and brings both of their hands up to his mouth, and before Ian can pull away Max licks across both of their palms while looking Ian right in the eye and says, “Nothing like a good nut.”
Or maybe everything is exactly the same. But slightly gayer. And not really by that much.